


y o u n g  b l o o d

by xoxogossipenjolras (tiptoes)



Series: up in smoke [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Les Mis AU, Multi, superhero au, tw blood, tw gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoes/pseuds/xoxogossipenjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The police officer takes a sceptical look at her, and she grins sheepishly. “You with that Apollo kid?" he asks, not unkindly. "No, sorry?" Cosette replies. The police officer laughs. “Don’t be sorry, kid. Thanks for going after the thief, takes a Super to catch a Super, you know?"</p><p>(Les Mis Super!AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	y o u n g  b l o o d

_Thursday_

 

 _Being a superhero is tough as shit_ , Cosette thinks. She heaves a breath as her boots pound against the pavement. To be honest, she doesn’t even know who or what she’s chasing. She had heard the scream, seen the disappearing figure, and started running. All she knows is that it’s small, fast, and hard to see. She rounds the corner and screeches to a stop. It’s a dead end.

So where did it go?

She leans against the wall for a moment to catch her breath, and jumps when there’s a thump behind her. She swerves around to see what it is, but it’s just a bag. There’s laughter coming from above her head, but no matter where she looks, Cosette can’t find the source. She takes a shortcut across the buildings to return the bag to its owner, and sees him talking to the police.

"Hi?" she says tentatively, waving slightly. “Is this yours?"

The owner looks as though he’s about to cry with relief. “Yes it is, oh my God, thank you so much! I thought it was gone forever, oh my God-"

Cosette nods, handing the bag over. The police officer takes a sceptical look at her, and she grins sheepishly. “You with that Apollo kid?" he asks, not unkindly.

"No, sorry?" Cosette replies. The police officer laughs. “Don’t be sorry, kid. Thanks for going after the thief, takes a Super to catch a Super, you know?"

"I guess?"

"You guess, huh?" the officer laughs again. “Don’t be so unsure of yourself, kid, you did well enough today. Now leave before the Inspector gets here, or I’ll lose my job for talkin’ to you."

The boy looks up from his bag and nods frantically at Cosette. “The Inspector’s scary as fuck, dude. You really don’t wanna mess with a guy like him." Cosette nods her thanks and turns on her heel to run. She scrambles up the fire escape and onto the roof to kick off in flight, and she can hear the beeping of cars below her.

She thinks back to what the boy and the police officer said about the Inspector, and wonders. When she gets back to her apartment, she doesn’t even bother changing before she’s turned on her computer and starts finding everything she can about him.

She doesn’t find anything official – no name, or age, or anything – but she comes across stories. First-hand accounts from the blogs of Super fanatics or innocent bystanders, posts on forums documenting Super sightings, and even strings of tweets about Supers who hadn’t been seen in a while. Cosette doesn’t like the stirring feeling in her gut when she reads about this man. She shuts her computer down before she’s tempting to look more.

It’s making her  _frightened_ , she realizes. She shakes her head to get rid of the feeling, and stumbles to her room to get changed. _There’s no reason to be afraid_ , she tells herself.  _There_   _isn’t_. She hasn’t done anything wrong; hasn’t  _really_  attracted enough attention to be considered a problem. She shivers, and decides to take a long, hot bath.

“No more stressing,” she says to herself, padding to the kitchen to get a drink. “And no more Google searching crazy Inspector people, too.”  


* * *

Grantaire groans as he stumbles up the stairs, one hand scrabbling against the wall, and the other slung across Eponine’s shoulders.

Eponine grunts as Grantaire trips over another stair. “Why,  _why_ , did you have to get shitfaced again?” she asks, though she knows the answer. The “Friends of the ABC” had another meeting again at the Musain, and Eponine knows what that does to Grantaire and his blood-alcohol content.

“He’s s-so  _stupid_ ,” he slurs, and Eponine searches her pocket for the keys. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she says, and fishes the keys out. “Bingo,” she mutters, and unlocks the door. “Home, sweet home. Now get inside.”

Eponine and Grantaire live in a loft apartment not too far from the city. It’s small and a little empty but its home. The walls used to be washed with white before Grantaire drew on them, and the floor boards used to be pale and bare before paint got splattered and smeared all over them. There’s a space in the corner where Gavroche stashes his sweets in amongst his blankets, and a cupboard where Grantaire stacks his sketchbooks and canvases.

“I need a drink,” Grantaire says.

“No, no, no,” Eponine says, as Grantaire tilts towards the kitchen. “Don’t you fucking dare, R. You’re going straight to bed.”

“I’ll get a bloody hangover anyway,” he mutters. “What’s a little more going to do to me?”

Eponine shakes her head in disbelief. “Go. The fuck. To sleep.” She says, glaring at him. She gives him a little shove towards his bedroom, and goes into the bathroom to change. She strips off her shirt and jeans and leans over the sink to splash her face with cold water. She stares at her reflection in the mirror for a minute, and closes her eyes. She’s always tired after a shift at the Musain when a meeting’s on. At least tonight was better than when Grantaire brought that piano into the pub, that week was a nightmare.

(Though it did make for good entertainment.)

She dries her face on a fluffy towel – the only one Gavroche hasn’t claimed – and stretches, her back clicking uncomfortably. She slips a thin cotton vest over her head, and pads out of the bathroom in thin slippers.

She peaks into Grantaire’s room, and finds him face down on his bed, snoring. She sighs, and walks into his room to turn him over.

“I swear to god, R,” she says. “I don’t know how you could have survived without me.”

Grantaire snores in response.

Eponine shakes her head, and dumps his duvet over his legs. “You can sort yourself out,” she mutters, and closes the door behind her.

There’s usually a draft going through the apartment – one of the downsides of being on the top floor – but it’s never usually this cold. Eponine looks around, and sees the window open, the light from the moon shining through the loft. She tiptoes quietly towards it, and sticks her head out of the window to have a look outside.

“What’cha doin’, ‘Ponine?” a voice asks from behind her and Eponine jumps violently, cracking her head against the window frame.

“ _Fuck!_ ” she whimpers, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. “Shit fucking  _shit_.”

She looks up at Montparnasse, leaning gracefully against the kitchen counter, observing her coolly. “You are an unholy piece of  _shit_ , ‘Parnasse, oh my  _god_.”

He laughs, the sound sending crawling shivers up her spine. “How nice of you to say.”

“What do you  _want_ , Montparnasse?” Eponine demands. “I don’t have time for your shit today.”

“You don’t have time for my shit  _any_  day,” he deadpans, and Eponine tilts her head to the side. Montparnasse knows he’s testing her patience, so he sighs and throws a large paper envelope onto the coffee table. “I got the information you wanted – about the Inspector? And I’ve got some stuff about the new Super too. I thought you might enjoy that. Be careful about showing that to your little roommate, though. God only know what he tells that little golden god of his.”

“ _Gavroche_  would never do such a thing,” Eponine says dramatically, hand grasping at invisible pearls. Montparnasse stares blankly back at her.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Eponine groans, standing up. Montparnasse raises his eyebrows at her bare legs. “It’s like you were  _expecting_  me,” he says, voice slick like oil. Eponine folds herself up on the couch with the papers, flitting through the pictures and news reports.

“Montparnasse, get the fuck out of my apartment before I  _make_  you.”

Montparnasse wisely shows himself out.

* * *

 

_Friday_

 

Cosette knocks on the door of Jehan’s flat, nearly knocking the tray of coffee to the ground.

“Hey boys!” She calls. “I’m gonna drop everything!”

“Coming!” Jehan yells from behind the door. There’s a rattle of a chain and a jangle of keys in the lock, and the door is flung open. Jehan appears from behind the door, beaming at Cosette. He takes the tray of coffee and the box of pastries from her arms, and invites her in with a tilt of his head.

“Hey boys,” she says, winking at Courfeyrac, who’s sitting down – still in his pyjamas, even though it’s almost noon – wrapped up in a large floral duvet. He waves cheerily at her, and sneezes violently.

Cosette winces sympathetically, taking off her coat and hanging it on the back of the arm of the sofa. “You ill, Courf?” she asks, sitting down to ruffle his hair, and Courfeyrac nods miserably.

“I  _told_  him that we should call Joly. Even  _Combeferre_  told him we should call Joly. But  _no_.” Jehan says from the kitchen, drawing out the ‘o’. “He just wouldn’t  _listen_.”

Cosette laughs at the face Courfeyrac pulls. “How would Joly help, anyway?” she asks. “I mean, I get that he’s a doctor and everything but what can he do beyond any other doctor?”

Cosette busies herself with getting a croissant from the box she brought, and misses the slightly panicked look that Jehan and Courfeyrac share.

Courfeyrac sniffs loudly, and says, “That was  _exactly_  my point.  _Thank_  you.”

Jehan rolls his eyes at Courfeyrac, and sighs. “Fine, fine, fine,” he says. “You win. You’re still taking whatever medicine Joly says you should though.”

Courfeyrac mouths ‘why’, and Cosette hides her giggles behind her hand. Jehan walks over to set the cups of coffee down onto the table, and smacks Courfeyrac lightly on the arm.

“Don’t hurt me, I’m sick,” he says, his grin nothing short of shit-eating.

Jehan simply glares at him.

The three of them lapse into a comfortable silence; Cosette nibbling on her croissant, Courfeyrac going through both his  _and_  Jehan’s coffees while Jehan simply looks on with a mildly amused expression on his face.

All three of them jump when the phone rings.

Jehan unfolds from his place on the arm of the sofa to go and pick it up, just as Courfeyrac’s mobile starts buzzing from the table. He unwraps himself from his cocoon of blankets to pick it up, just as Jehan sings a cheery “Hello!” into the phone from the kitchen.

“It’s Grantaire,” Courfeyrac mutters, thumbs swiping across the screen in frenzy. “He says… to turn on the news?”

“’Ferre said the same thing,” Jehan says, padding back into the living room as Courfeyrac turns on the TV. “I wonder what–”

“ _–the Super known as_ Apollo _has been severely injured at a recent confrontation with a group of bank robbers–_ ”

Jehan’s hands come up to cover his gasp immediately and Courfeyrac grabs his phone and mutters that he needs to make a call. Cosette looks up, confusion painted across her face. “Why are you guys–”

“Oh Cosette, I can’t tell you, I’m so sorry,” Jehan says, clutching her hands. His lip trembles slightly, like he’s about to cry. “Are you alright?” Cosette asks, concern overcoming confusion. “Jehan, did you  _know_  this Super? Because the news report just said he was  _hurt_ , I mean, they didn’t say he was… They didn’t say he was dead or anything, right?”

Jehan takes a deep breath, like he wants to say something, but Courfeyrac comes bursting back into the room before he can. He’s slightly breathless, and he points at the phone like he wants to say something but he doesn’t know the words.

“Combeferre says–he says that he’s gonna be fine but– _shit_ we need to go. We need to go  _right now_  or ‘Ferre’s gonna kill us.”

Jehan rolls his eyes. “Combeferre would never  _kill_  us, idiot. He’d give us a stern talking to, sure, but he loves us too much.”

Cosette, who’s only met Combeferre a few times, nods knowledgeably at Courfeyrac from behind Jehan.

“Go get yourself dressed,” Jehan says, swatting at Courfeyrac as he passes him. “I’m so  _so_  sorry Cosette, I know we were gonna hang out, but could you–”

“Yeah, of course,” Cosette says, shaking her head fondly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jehan smiles at her, and hurries to the closet to find his and Courfeyrac’s coats. It’s cold, even for March, so he pulls out two thick woollen scarves and a knitted hat. Cosette hides her grin behind her coffee cup – Courfeyrac is not going to enjoy wearing that.

“We’ll reschedule, okay?” Jehan says, slipping on his dark blue coat and wrapping the over-sized scarf around his neck. “Tomorrow, if you want. We could all meet up at The Musain and have drinks, yeah?”

Cosette nods, grinning at Jehan. She sets the now empty cup on the table and stands, stretching out her back. Jehan hands Cosette her coat from where she’d draped it on the sofa, and she buttons it on. “I’ll text you about it,” she says.

“We’ll drop you off back home if you want,” Courfeyrac says coming back out to the living room, a plaid shirt thrown over a worn band shirt and wearing jeans instead of flannel pyjama pants. Jehan hands him his coat and glares at him until he puts the hat on. Courfeyrac pulls another face at Cosette, and says, “It’s the least we can do since we’re ditching you after you brought us sweeties.”

* * *

Cosette fumbles with her keys as she walks up the stairs to her flat. She knows Courfeyrac and Jehan went out of their way to bring her back home – The Musain is at the other end of the city, and they always meet up there – but she’s grateful for it. The weather’s gotten colder as the day goes on, the wind biting against her cheeks on the short walk from the car to the stairs, and she finds herself wishing for the warmth of her costume.

She sighs, and tells herself that she’s going to have a nice long bath and not think about being a super until it’s _at least_ nine.

Cosette stalls as she gets to her flat. There’s something… _wrong_. She wrinkles her nose, looking around, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. She shrugs, and turns back to the door to unlock it, but it’s already unlocked.

_Wait._

Cosette squints at the lock. No signs of a forced break-in – maybe she just forgot to lock it when she left? _No_ , Cosette thinks, _I always remember to lock my door when I leave._

She pushes the door open slowly, making sure it doesn’t creak, and slips into her flat. She stays silent, wrapping her fingers around the cricket bat she keeps by the door, and tiptoes to the living room.

There’s the sound of someone standing up – where they sitting on her _sofa?_ – and Cosette raises the bat high over her shoulder. She pushes the living room door open, and–

“Cosette. Put the cricket bat _down_.”

Cosette sighs, pushing the door open all the way. Her shoulders slump in exasperation as she sees her father grinning behind the door.

“You _scared_ me,” she says, flinging her arms around his neck. He returns her hug, squeezing her tight in the same way he always has, and laughs.

“I didn’t think anything could scare _you_ , little lark,” he says fondly, and she beams up at him.

Jean Valjean poses an intimidating figure; he’s six foot four and 210 pounds of muscle, and has the ability to make you shit your pants with just one glare. But Cosette knows that isn’t _strictly_ true. He’s only mean when he wants to be – and he never really _wants_ to be – and his only priority is to protect Cosette.

(So what she’s saying is that he’s pretty great. Really great. _Super_ great, you could say.)

“What are you doing here, papa?” Cosette asks, and her father raises an eyebrow at her.

“Am I not allowed to come and visit my daughter in her new house?”

Cosette rolls her eyes. “Of course you can, but you never do anything without a reason, do you?”

Jean Valjean sighs, sinking down onto the couch. He fixes Cosette with a steely look, but Cosette doesn't even flinch. "I know about the Lark, Cosette."

Cosette's eyes widen just a fraction, but she straightens out her face fast enough that anybody could have missed it. But Jean Valjean isn't just anybody. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says stubbornly.

He runs his hand through his salt and pepper hair and looks up at her. "Please don't lie to me, Cosette. The last thing I want is for you to keep things from me, but you _know_ how I feel about you being a Super. You _know_ –”

"I do," Cosette says quietly. "But I can't just-I can't _not_ be a super, papa! It's in my blood, it's in my _bones_ and I can't just ignore it!" Her voice rises before she realises she's shouting, and she shrinks in shame.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry for yelling at you but you must know how I feel. You've felt this way before and-"

"Yes, I have, and look how it turned out for me! Some nutter made it his mission to find me and _destroy_ me, Cosette. What would I do if that happened to you? You've seen the news - that Apollo boy being hunted and beaten down - it's dangerous work, being a Super, and it's not a _game_ , Cosette!" Jean says, no longer sitting calmly on the sofa.

"I know that!" Cosette says back, frustrated tears collecting on her eyelashes. "Just see what I can do - I'm not going to go after gangs or even draw attention to myself! But I can _help_ people, papa. I really can."

There's a long pause, and the air is stifling.

"I know you can, little lark," Jean says quietly, drawing Cosette into a hug. "I just worry."

Cosette laughs wetly into her father's chest. "I know. You've been worrying since I was six years old."

* * *

Eponine sits on the ledge of the office building, kicking her legs idly. She sips her drink, her red lipstick staining the mouth of the bottle. It’s quiet – maybe too quiet – but Eponine isn’t complaining. She’s had enough of chasing after petty little thieves and trouble makers, and since the new Super seems to be taking care of them, Eponine can relax.

She drains the last of her soda from the bottle and drops it into the trashcan below. The crunch it makes against the rest of the rubbish is oddly satisfying, and Eponine stands and stretches out the knots in the back. She raises her right hand to fiddle with her mask, and suddenly, her vision turns red.

Montparnasse has been fiddling with her suit again, and he’s been taking the Batman metaphor a _bit_ too far. Eponine is just a low profile, patrolling super. She does not need heat signature detection and freaking _thief vision_ , for god’s sakes.

But she won’t deny that it _is_ cool, viewing the world like a superhero from a video game or from the movies. She tumbles and flips from rooftop to rooftop, the faint figures of civilians gleaming through the walls of their homes.

Eponine almost feels like a kid – a free, silly, hopeful kid – as she lands on her feet on the town bank. Most Supers don’t hang around here anymore, and only the most well equipped Supers patrol around here. All because of that stupid Apollo incident too.

Eponine shakes her head slightly, tiptoeing across the roof of the bank. A Super should be more considerate of their mortality before they go naming themselves after gods.

Through her newly improved mask, Eponine can see the new security system the bank has installed. It’s probably “Super-proof” at the Inspector’s insistence. Lasers flash against her vision as she contorts herself to fit through the impossible gaps between the thin red lines. She finally makes her way to the edge of the bank roof, and laughs to herself.

Nobody can make anything Super-proof. It takes a Super to catch a Super, after all.

Eponine jumps off the roof of the bank to the apartment block next to it, but her arm goes numb, and she narrowly misses the ground.

“What?” she mutters. That’s never happened to her before. Never. What is _happening_?

But Eponine won’t allow herself to worry. Not yet. She scales the wall, climbing fire escapes until the feeling is regained in her fingers. She finally reaches the roof, and it takes more energy out of her than it usually does.

She lets out a strangled shriek as a sharp pain goes through her side. The pain is like a knife; searing and blinding and cold and hot at the same time, a pain that cuts through bone and muscle and drives deep into her lungs. Her breathing is slowing. She is getting too much air but _not enough_. She can almost feel the scratch of her ribs against her lungs.

Her suit is suddenly too hot for her, and her head is spinning. She grapples for her phone, hidden in a pocket along her leg. She has to call Montparnasse. He’s the only person that will help her. He’s the only person that _can_.

Before she can even wrap her fingers around her phone, a sick feeling washes over her. Something thick and slimy and knotted is stuck in the back of her throat, and she retches to get it out. Blood spills from her red lips, shiny and black like oil, and it splatters against the cold grey of the roof. Eponine heaves, each breath more laboring than the last, and wonders if they _did_ make that roof Super-proof. Her jaw cracks under the force of metal, and her world goes black.

When she wakes up to the hot-cold agony once more, she can feel hands against the thick leather of her sleeves. Hands that a bigger and stronger than hers. Her knees scrape against the ground as she’s dragged, and her head clears enough that she realizes that this is all happening so quickly. She was only unconscious for a few minutes, and if she’d just regain her strength–

The thought escapes her as her knees bump against the ledge of the building, and the ground comes rushing to meet her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Nia (bertholdtfubars) for beta'ing and for Hayley (barricadeponine) and Kaisa (kaskuin) for being gr10 with my insistence that they read my fic. As always.
> 
> tumblr: xoxogossipenjolras
> 
> graphic: http://xoxogossipenjolras.tumblr.com/post/53689584819/up-in-smoke-a-les-mis


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